


The Wooden Spoon

by hannahrhen



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bottom Steve Rogers, Corporal Punishment, Crying, Dom/sub Undertones, Domestic Discipline, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Slash, Sexual Confusion, Spanking, Submission, Top Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-16
Updated: 2014-07-16
Packaged: 2018-02-09 01:21:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1963629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannahrhen/pseuds/hannahrhen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was a wooden spoon in their kitchen. It had never been used for cooking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wooden Spoon

**Author's Note:**

> Consider this a prequel to [A Few Licks](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1557251/chapters/3404027) and [Back in Line](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1557251/chapters/3748801).

Steve was kneading the crust for the pot pie when he heard the door to the apartment creak open. The light slanting in from the yellowed kitchen window told the time: Bucky was home from the dockyards, probably exhausted and definitely hungry, and this?

 _This_ was one of Steve’s good days. Cooking a real dinner, even one of leftover boiled chicken, canned peas, and mostly turnips, was the least he could do.

Called out a quick greeting over his shoulder as he kept his back to the door and worked the dough into a fat circle on the flour-dusted table. Didn’t get a response immediately, and before he could turn around to check, he heard Bucky ask, quiet, “Feelin’ better, huh?”

And Steve was. The sunny, dry weather was helping, and Steve just felt _good_. Chest open, bruises from that bad last fight healed, and … just good. Turned his face to smile at Bucky in profile, sighed a “yeah.” Just a couple more minutes, some work with the rolling pin, and this thing could go in the oven.

He heard something clatter out of the old ceramic jar on the countertop, then heard Bucky’s voice go stern:

“Pants down, Steve. And elbows on the table.”

Steve jerked upright, just a little, and froze in place. Knew what Bucky had retrieved from its usual spot with the spatula and mallet. The heavy, polished wooden spoon had appeared suddenly the year before, just after Steve and Bucky had rented this place together. Bucky had shrugged when Steve asked, but he’d gotten his answer when it had been taken out for the first time soon after.

It had been used regularly since, but never for cooking. Sometimes it came out after Steve’s sassing mouth made itself heard at the wrong time, and other times--most other times for--

“Buck--” He was staring at his fingers where they sank into the dough.

The voice behind him was low and solid, firm, and it gave Steve the shivers. “Do I gotta ask you again?”

He let out a breath, dropped his shoulders. No, he didn’t. And Steve knew what this was, Bucky still aggravated at what had happened the week before, the trouble Steve had gotten into with those jerks behind the Woolworth’s, but Steve had been too tired and hurt then to …

To punish.

His breath was already coming faster. He pulled his fingers out of the dough, leaving ten perfect imprints beneath.

Didn’t even turn around as he brushed off his hands. Wasn’t sure he wanted to see Bucky standing there, still flushed and sweaty from work, clothes mussed, lines tight between his brow. Holding the handle of the shining brown spoon in one hand, rubbing the smooth, convex back with the palm of the other. Watching Steve and ...

Waiting.

It made things worse when Steve kept him waiting.

He slipped his suspenders off and made short work of his pants and underwear. Considered the flour for a minute--thought about doing something with it, and the small ball of dough in the center--but rolled up his sleeves before doing exactly what Bucky had told him.

Fudging it never ended well for him, either.

The points of his elbows made soft thunks when they hit the table, and he felt the tease of his waistband trailing down his legs before pooling beneath his knees. This position was meant to humiliate; the table was low enough that Steve bent down at a perfect angle to his legs, his spine stretched long (as long as it would get) across the surface, his shirttails--

“Lift it up,” he was ordered, and Bucky was definitely already closer. Steve could feel the air displaced around the backs of his exposed thighs, and Bucky would smack his hands without hesitation if he took too long, so he jerked one behind himself quickly to pull his shirt up to the small of his back, leaving him completely bared and ready for it.

 _Ass just made for a whippin’_ , Bucky had said after the first time, still hovering over Steve, when it had been the arm of the sofa and his fingertips dug rough into the cushions, and there had been something in his voice then, and Steve had been just as confused and aching and … _other_ things that hadn’t come to light. Not at first.

He could have asked Bucky to stop. He never did.

Heard the hum of approval behind him. God. Steve’s breath was fast, almost panting now, but not too--not too much, yet. Once he was sure the shirt wouldn’t slip down, he got both arms back in front of him, tucked in tight to his chest and around that stupid dough ball, and curled his hands into fists.

This was the part where Bucky would--

“You know why I’m doing this, Stevie?”

\--where Bucky would talk. And Steve knew why, but Bucky was gonna tell him anyhow.

“I’m doing this because you just won’t listen, you know?” Steve shifted on his feet, sinking his weight onto one foot, then the other, canting his hips as he tracked Bucky’s voice. Knew Bucky was moving into position, too, left side turned to Steve, dominant right hand balancing the spoon, whose bowl was as broad as a large man’s palm and even more painful.

“How many do you think you’ve earned this time?”

Steve made a little noise in the back of his throat. Tilted his head down. He hated this part. Only allowed himself a tiny pause, and, “Ten?” he said hopefully, which immediately earned him his first smack, the thick makeshift paddle swooshing through the air and landing sharp across the split of his ass, making him jump, pushing out his breath in a gust.

“Try again.” Bucky’s voice was unsympathetic. They’d done this before, and Steve should have known better.

“Twenty--” And corrected himself before Bucky had a chance to. “Twenty-five.” God, just one and his ass was already aching.

Bucky hummed, not exactly agreement this time, which-- “Normally I would go with you there, Stevie, but,” and another swoosh, and the second blow landed across the throbbing echo of the first, and Steve’s yelp caught in his throat before it softened to a whimper. “You keep not listening, when I tell you again, and again, and again not to get into fights without me there, without me to look out for you, so I think it’s time to make you listen, you know? Maybe a few extra will take care of that. What do you think?”

Steve knew enough not to answer that question.

And then, worryingly, Bucky didn’t give him a number at all--didn’t even tell Steve to count--just pressed his left palm onto the small of Steve’s back, over the rumpled hem of his shirt, and shuffled his feet to the side a little.

Getting a better purchase-- _God._

Steve dropped his head, squeezed his fists so tight his nails bit into his palms, and willed himself to stay quiet when the third blow fell, just below where he was already on fire.

Bucky wasn’t asking him to count out loud, no, but Steve still counted, in his head--tried to, anyway, when the strikes were far enough apart to be recognizable, when Steve’s own ass wasn’t a round of sharp, spiking pain followed by pulsing heat, when he wasn’t working too hard to hold himself in place so Bucky wouldn’t have to push him back down.

It was worse when Bucky had to push him back down. Worse, and, God help him, _better._

So much better.

Because there was something about being like this: bent low over the table in their kitchen, the place where they shared meals every day; his forearms twisting and hands desperately wanting something to hold while his mouth let out pained little oh’s at every blow; toes scuffing into the floor as he struggled to hold still, damn it, just hold still, with Bucky steaming mad behind him.

Steaming mad and needing to work it out on Steve’s ass, like Steve was his to keep in line ...

Bucky never-- _never_ \--hurt Steve when he was already hurting. When he was weak. But he saved it up, kept his eye on Steve, and made sure he took his licks every time as if his infractions were still fresh. As if the fight had just happened, and he had dragged Steve home by his collar and was laying him down across Bucky’s knee. Steve wanted a mirror, desperately--suddenly wanted to see Bucky in his work shirt and worn-thin slacks behind him, hair tangled and pushed off his face with a casual hand, sweat beading over his lip from the exertion of--

Of correcting Steve.

Of taking care of Steve.

And that was all it took--something around thirty spanks with the spoon, and Steve’s head swam with the vision of Bucky grim and determined behind him, wielding that spoon like the sheer force of it could knock the stubbornness out of Steve. Like a strong arm and curve of wood applied hard and repeatedly to Steve’s tender flesh would make him submit to Bucky’s care.

Bucky didn’t know how close Steve came to submitting.

Somewhere around that thirtieth blow, Steve knew he was hard as steel between his legs, and the tears streaming down his cheeks weren’t enough to quell it.

“Bucky,” he cried out. “Please,” his tears dripped into the white-dusted wood when he squeezed his eyes shut. Bucky wouldn’t know what Steve was asking for, would just think that Steve wanted him to stop, when Steve really was just asking him to--

Needing him to--

God, how much he wanted to _submit._

Wouldn’t. Wouldn’t ever, but, God, wanted to so _much._

“A few more, baby,” was the answer, low and warm now, and this was part of it, too, when Bucky’s frustration was spent and he was starting to come down, turning back into Steve’s best friend, the one who always looked after him and always would. “Just a few more,” and he got somewhere close to forty despite Steve’s pleas, made sure Steve would be standing at the table over dinner tonight, eyes still red and nose stuffed from crying, before tossing the spoon behind him to clatter on the counter again.

Steve knew not to straighten until he was told. He knew Bucky liked to look him over and make sure the job had been done well. See that his chastisement had been thorough.

This time, though, after just a sweep of palm over Steve’s sore ass, Bucky pulled him up and tugged him backward, lined him up against Bucky’s chest, back to front. God, his shirt’s hem hid nothing. If Bucky looked down over Steve’s shoulder, he would see--

“You gonna listen to me next time, punk?” He had Steve’s upper arms in his hands, and he shook him just a little for effect. “Wait for me so I can help you out?” His voice slid right into Steve’s ear, exasperated, but sweet, too. “ _Please,_ Stevie?”

And Steve wanted to promise--wanted to, but couldn’t. Bucky knew it didn’t work that way. It wasn’t how life worked, and it sure wasn’t how Steve worked. He knew. So Steve offered only, between gentling sobs, his voice breaking over the words, “I’ll try.” He tilted his head back against Bucky’s shoulder, against the comfort of that bulk, and looked up to the ceiling. Repeated the words as he was held, and then again, as Bucky held onto him tight. Didn’t care--suddenly didn’t care if Bucky saw him, saw that Steve was jutting straight out from under the hem of his shirt.

Felt Bucky shift, and then chuckle a little, and then, shockingly, slide his hand down to that space between Steve’s legs--found him and ran that hand over where Steve was swollen and twitching, pressing him up against his own belly. Steve tried to pull away, but he was held onto firm, and Bucky rubbed at him a little, up and down, palm warm and heavy and perfect, as Steve finally exhaled.

Bucky only said, “Now I’m startin’ to see why this ain’t exactly discouragement, Steve,” and Steve laughed, weak and embarrassed, as he felt Bucky shake his head behind him.

Then he stepped away, landed a perfect slap hard across Steve’s abused rear--and that made Steve rise up on his toes and whimper--and just said to him, “Finish dinner, wouldja?” with a “please” following in a kinder voice. Steve turned his head back in time to see Bucky tugging his shirt over his head, starting to change out of his dirty work clothes as he headed toward the bedroom. “I’ll be thinkin’ of other ways to get you to mind.” His voice promised a smile, and ... _other_ things. For just a second, in profile, Steve could see the shape of Bucky’s own hard dick tracing the line of his fly.

_Oh._

“Okay, Buck,” Steve said finally, when he could speak again. “Dinner’ll be in an hour,” he added, because he couldn’t think of anything else.

So, after brushing the flour from his forearms, after putting his own clothes back into place, Steve turned his attention back to the most confusing pot pie he would ever make. And tried not to think about--or anticipate, definitely not anticipate--what Bucky would come up with next.

**Author's Note:**

> I should be deeply ashamed of myself.
> 
>  _Should_ be.
> 
> [Find me on tumblr](http://hannahrhen.tumblr.com), doing penance by reblogging sexy things.


End file.
